


The Lotus Club

by hannibanni753



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, BDSM, D/s, Hostage Situation, Humiliation, M/M, Poor Anderson, Subdrop, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9095857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibanni753/pseuds/hannibanni753
Summary: When Scotland Yard gets an anonymous tip about a major drug deal about to happen, who better to send undercover than the mastermind Sherlock Holmes himself? Of course, some poor soul from the Yard has to accompany the annoying detective. And as if that wasn't enough, the scenario also takes place in a fetish club.





	1. Chapter 1

It was a day like every other at the Yard. Except it was very different. For one of them. When Anderson came in, he would never have dreamt of how the day would end.

These days, whenever he thought of having Sally over (or of having her somewhere) he quickly pushed that thought aside again. Because thanks to a certain erratic know-it-all, they could no longer engage in such endeavours. Office politics wouldn’t allow it. And when it came to his wife, well, it was his ex-wife now... So there’s that.

However, Anderson tried never to let himself down completely. He was a get-back-up-kinda-guy. Sure, adapting to his new bachelor lifestyle wasn’t always easy. Especially on the holidays he felt the loneliness stealthily creeping up on him without him realizing what it was. But that feeling didn’t last for long and so he made due. Apart from that, he actually liked his newfound freedom. He was not a bad looking man, and also not stupid, as someone tried to make him and everyone in the Yard believe over and over again. He would find someone again eventually, and until then he could just as well enjoy the perks of being alone and not having to answer to anyone. So when he was arriving at work, he tried not to let the bad weather get the best of his mood.

All attempts of optimism failed, however, when he was greeted by yet another condescending remark by the one man that got under his skin every time. Waiting impatiently at his desk was Sherlock Holmes, casually leaning against it and disarranging Anderson’s work things just to spite him. He tried to hide his dismay and put on a face that he thought projected how unfazed he was by the insult and behaviour.

Instead of reacting to it, he asked:

“What do you want, Holmes? The results for the last victim’s DNA tests can’t be expected before Friday, you know that.”

“Of course I do.”

“Then what is it? Don’t you have other people to annoy?”

“The evidence at the crime scene yesterday makes no sense. I thought all the possibilities through. The conclusion I drew is that you and your team, who are responsible for securing evidence, but mostly you, must have messed with the data.”

“I did NOT mess with anything! Unlike some others I do follow protocol. So there’s nothing gone missing or mixed up. If anything doesn’t add up in your brain, maybe you should entertain the possibility that even you don’t know everything. Blaming me, this is so outrageous-“

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“What?“

“That it’s your fault a case can’t be solved.”

“Excuse me!? Are you accusing me now of tampering with the evidence?”

“You are excused. No, of course not. You lack the wit of intentionally vanishing evidence. That requires a great deal more brains. Therefore, no accusing.”

“That's unbelievable!” Incredulous of that level of audacity, Anderson could barely manage to contain his anger.

“So I take it, you can’t tell me anything about the missing footprints?” The detective went on.

“Missing footprints?”

“Yes, Anderson. That’s what I just said.” Sherlock rolled his eyes in exaggeration. “There were three different DNA samples, the victim’s, obviously, and two others’. Because the footprints don’t match the victim, she must have been carried to the place she’s been found. But there’s only one pair of footprints of shoes, and it suggests a small build of the shoe owner. That would make help in carrying the body necessary. So I’m asking again, Anderson. Did you, inobservant as you are, accidentally smudge any tracks in the snow?”

“No, I did not!...I mean... I think I didn’t, when...-“

“What do you mean, you THINK?!? Are you really that ret-“

“What’s going on here, boys?” Lestrade strode in, adding: “Please don’t tell me, you two are starting at this time of the day already? Put yourselves to some use instead. We got an anonymous tip of a major drug deal that’s supposedly going to happen tonight. Team conference now!” And with that the DI headed to his office.

“Right, I’m off then. With yet another unsolved case, which Anderson’s to blame for.”

Being a bit slow to raise to the bait, Anderson's mind was still processing something else:

"Wait a second... How do you know about there being three DNA samples?"

"Tested them myself. Works faster, obviously." Sherlock answered in a bored tone and turned away to leave.

"So you STOLE evidence from the crime scene? You admit it then?!" Anderson jumped up, red-faced from outrage. Meanwhile, the detective was already halfway gone.

"Oy! Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted, sticking his head out the door. "We could actually use your help with this one. Would you mind?" Hesitating in his stride, Sherlock thought a second and rolling his eyes he stuck his hands in his coat and came back to join the others in the conference room.

Anderson groaned and gave himself a brief moment of self-pity, before he got up to join them as well.

 

\-------

"So, to be clear about this whole thing. You need someone from the police, but not necessarily on the active force, to go to the Lotus Club undercover to sniff around. And because you're all not particularly good at that, you need me to accompany one of you to do that for you." Sherlock rattled down the summary of the agonizingly long and boring discussion the yarders have had to the point.

Lestrade paused for a second, before he answered:

"Yeah, also they are familiar with our active police officers. So either one of us can't go without blowing cover. But you can't go alone, either. So someone of the team has to come with you to make it an official operation. Seeing as you only have to collect evidence, that should not be a problem. Plus, we'll be on standby."

"So, who's gonna go with him?" Donavon, who was leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, asked. "I doubt there's gonna be a lot of volunteers." She added with a sideways glance towards the Consulting detective.

Ignoring her last remark, Sherlock explained: "Since this is a fetish club and the cover story has to be realistic, there are not many possibilities to choose from. As I will without question take a dominant role, my companion must be of the submissive kind." He went on, strolling up and down the room, adding mostly to himself:

"It will not be sufficient to just play the role, but there should be a submissive streak in their nature. The more you have to act, the higher is the probability of getting caught... So, considering all the circumstances, this leaves us with no room but to go with... Anderson..." He turned around and pierced the man with his eyes.

Startling from his lethargic stance at the sound of his name, Anderson protested:

"What? I'm not submissive! I'm not even into that kind of stuff." He looked at Lestrade, searching for support.

The DI however, fascinated by the thought process and the revelations by the detective, thought about how that situation was playing out. Seeing his hesitation, Anderson bristled at the mere idea:

"Boss, you can't be seriously considering this?!"

"Actually, now that Sherlock has mentioned it, I could see that cover working." Lestrade said slowly. That rendered the forensics expert speechless and left him looking from the DI to the detective and back in shock.

"There MUST be someone else able to play along in the whole department, surely?" He tried one more time.

"Well, look at it that way: There is no one who fits the criteria as well as you apparently do, according to Sherlock, AND has worked together with him on regular occasions as you have." Lestrade argued.

"Well, I wouldn't call it working 'together'..." Anderson murmured beaten, ruffling his hair in distress, still trying to find a way to talk himself out of this mess.

"What about..." He looked up at the now smirking detective and trailed off, as he realized there was no use.

Meanwhile Sherlock couldn't keep the superiority from his voice, when he said:

"Don't worry, Anderson. I won't be too hard on you, if you manage to obey properly, that is." On a whim he added with his creepy grin: "I'll even let you have a safe word. Lestrade, text me the details." And with that he was gone.

Horrified at the scenarios that his brain came up with after those words, Anderson looked at Lestrade imploringly and in such a helpless manner that he could almost make one's heart melt.

But all he got from him was a "Sorry, mate. I wouldn't even trade with you, if it made sense!" and a pat on the shoulder, as he left the room. Sally and the others just gave him pitiful looks and their condolences as one after the other followed their boss out.

 

\-----

Many instructions and miserable hours later, Anderson walked out the Yard to meet with his tormentor-to-be. They had collectively decided not to use earpieces or other equipment, because it would be too risky with Anderson not being a field-trained policeman. So if the drug dealers had any doubt about them and searched them, they'd not find anything. They were 100% incognito.

There had been one thing, however, which Anderson had fought tooth and nail, and successfully, too. He would under no circumstances put on any of those ridiculous SM costumes that are known to be worn in that scene. There was no official dress code after all, and one could project submission or dominance just as well in a perfectly ordinary suit, he had argued. That was all fine and well, when Sherlock, too, came in a suit, matching his own. The only difference was the colour of their shirts, Sherlock's purple, Anderson's a light blue.

They actually made a quite good impression, together. What he didn't expect, though, was, when in the cab Sherlock suddenly produced a black leather collar and a pair of leather hand cuffs.

"Woah, what's that supposed to help with?" He anxiously shied away. "I'm not putting that on! Uh-uh, no way!"

Assessing him sceptically,  Sherlock started:

"First of all, you're going to have to trust me tonight. A relationship between a dom and a sub is based on trust."

"Well, then I wasn't the best choice after all, was I? Because there's no way in hell I'm going to be able to trust you with anything, especially when it comes to my freedom of movement!"

"In any case, it's too late to change the plan now. So either you comply or this whole operation is for naught. Your choice." Sherlock answered indignantly.

"But why would I have to put on this stuff? I mean, what good does it anyway?"

His impatience growing imminent now, Sherlock said: "As you've pointed out, you don't trust me. That makes the use of these items even more necessary, as our cover story looks weak already. But an unwilling sub that I still have to teach their place that I can work with and sell."

Not knowing what else to say, Anderson gave Sherlock a scrutinising look and after a moment contritely lifted up his hands, exposing his wrists for Sherlock to incarcerate. Despite the leather, the cuffs felt really cold. But maybe that was just his imagination and owed to the pressing feeling of giving up control. Especially since Sherlock now expertly linked the cuffs together with the rings that were attached to each of the cuffs.

Anderson could only watch silently. This was actually going to happen. He would be at the mercy of freaking Sherlock Holmes who had never let an opportunity slide to humiliate him. Good God! What had he done to deserve this?

When he tried to pull his arms apart to see how much range he had, he found that there was little to no leeway. He swallowed, as his face grew hot and his heart beat sped up. He was in real handcuffs now, incapable of getting free unless Sherlock wanted it. With all his willpower he tried to calm down his breathing and adjust to the new situation. Sherlock was surprisingly tactful, as he watched and waited for Anderson to focus on him again.

"Also I'm going to call you Philip during the whole evening."

When Anderson prepared to object, Sherlock interrupted menacingly: "Or if you make a fuss I could always address you as 'pet'! Whichever appeals to your submissive side more... Your choice."

On the verge of a stubborn response, Anderson thought better of it and shut his mouth again. He then marginally lowered his head, which he corrected an instant later. His cuffs already conveyed to him that he was in a new position, less privileged. Damn, that detective knew what he was doing! Decisively he looked up to meet his eyes and of course Sherlock had noticed his internal struggle, too!

With a triumphant grin he said:

"I believe you are ready for your last accessory, Philip." He looked at him expectantly, daring him to object to saying his first name.

But Anderson did nothing of the sort and instead let go of the rest of his pride and lifted his chin to give Sherlock access to his neck, who had no trouble putting the collar around his neck. When his hands unavoidably touched skin, Anderson couldn't suppress an involuntary shiver. He didn't meet Sherlock's eyes. The collar was heavier than it had looked and even though Sherlock had put it on very loosely, the forensics expert was a heartbeat away from suffocating from anxiety. Only with a huge amount of restraint he kept a calm facade. The one thing betraying him was that all colour had been drained from his face.

He was no longer capable of looking Sherlock in the eye, because the humiliation had become too much. His subdued gaze fell on what Sherlock pulled out of his pocket next: a long delicate metal chain, that the other man now skilfully pulled through the rings that were attached to each handcuff to then link it to the collar, which had several rings attached, too. Sherlock then linked the ends of the chain on the back of Anderson's neck, where they dangled loosely down his back.

"This is your leash. I can adjust the range of your movements with it, just like that." With no warning whatsoever he pulled the ends of the chains back, so Anderson was forced to draw his hands up to his collar, which he clasped with his finger so he wouldn't suffocate.

"What the hell!" He yelled, more out of surprise than anything.

"See, that kind of outburst, for example, demands immediate punishment!"

Instantly Sherlock pulled the chain back even further, so his newfound subject was thrown backwards. Because of this movement, Anderson was now practically lying in the arms of Sherlock Holmes, his ability to move his arms and upper body almost entirely at the command of the man. That realisation didn't help the panic that suddenly surged through him. Being so close to him, Sherlock naturally noticed the increased pulse and almost felt sorry for the man. All the dim-wittiness aside, Anderson wasn't a bad person, and being dependent of someone you didn't trust must have been a very traumatising experience.

So, by keeping control of the poor man's movements with his left hand, he had his right hand free to calm Anderson down by soothingly stroking circles on his exposed stomach. He had to concede that he was in good shape. Though he obviously didn't work out on a regular basis, there was not an ounce of fat to find on his ribs.

Anderson's first impulse at that unexpected attack was to push that arm away with his elbows to protect himself from the attack, but Sherlock had obviously anticipated that and increased the pressure with his left hand. That had the effect of really choking Anderson this time. All he could do was try and get a grip on the collar that was digging into his skin.

Also he was defenceless as he couldn't do anything against Sherlock's arm around him, which felt like yet another violation of his freedom. He didn't like that. At all.

After three good minutes he finally resigned and gave in. He stopped struggling. Sherlock's hand now rested on his heavily moving chest.

"Good. Very good." Sherlock commented in a calm, focused voice. "Now this is a first step towards complete submission. I'm afraid, that lesson is also all we have time for, since we're very close to the club."

With that, he let go of the chain and Anderson gained back some freedom of range, but somehow seemed to have lost his speech along the way of this demonstration. He honestly wasn't sure, if he had the stomach to pull that whole thing off. He was white as a sheet. Then he thought of the case and that all of the success was depending on his performance. So he swallowed and took a deep breath, before he got out of the cab behind Sherlock, chained up as he was.

And if he wanted to get through this ordeal to impress a certain detective and prove his worth just a little bit, well, nobody had to know.


	2. Chapter 2

After getting out of the cab, the two men stood there for a moment, looking up at the black letters that were illuminated by violet lighting. Dulled music was audible from the building. A few people were standing around, having a smoke or a chat. All of them were easily recognisable as members of the BDSM scene. Amidst them, the two slim figures in their black suits were rather conspicuous and drew the attention.

Feeling uncomfortable and intimidated already, Anderson stepped a little closer to the detective and let his shoulders unconsciously slump. He directed his gaze on the ground. There was something about these people, something that demanded respect and fear. He shuddered slightly. Was it their lifestyle that he knew next to nothing about and that intimidated him or was it the knowledge that he was about to step into a lion's den of drug smugglers? He couldn't say. All he knew was that it was madness walking in there unarmed and practically defenceless. His only anchor being a man that he didn't get along with very well in his everyday life. Madness indeed...

"Now, remember." Sherlock whispered. "You are supposed to obey me on everything I say. If you don't, I have to apply punishment of some sort. Otherwise they might notice that something's wrong."

Anderson just nodded.

"From here on out, I'll be in character and remain so until this is over. I suggest you do the same. Your only chance of stopping is to say the safe word. Tell me what it is again."

"I'm not as stupid as you think, you know. Obviously I remember it."

"Then say it! This is not about your arguable intellect, but about being diligent and responsible."

"Alright, alright, fine. It's 'Trenzalore'."

"In contrast to whatever prejudice you might have, everything in there happens consensually. At least it should be."

"Wow, what a pep talk. Don't make me bubble over with joy. Restrain me. I can barely contain my excitement. Oh wait, I'm already restrained."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes in response.

"So, are you ready?"

"Just to be clear: I'll draw the line immediately, if you try to subject me to some kind of perverse fantasies. Also, no engaging in any sexual behaviour, unless it's absolutely necessary for the cover!" Anderson hissed as a last kind of rearing up, before Sherlock tugged at his sleeve to indicate he was going in now.

"Yes, yes... now get on with it." Sherlock turned to walk towards the entrance.

Following him, Anderson wondered for the first time how Sherlock knew so much about that scene. For one, the common understanding at the Yard was that he had no interest in engaging in sexual activities whatsoever. And second, Anderson could not possibly imagine a scenario with the necessity to educate oneself for a case - well, with the exception of this one, he thought dryly. Anyway, who would ever understand the mysterious depths of Sherlock Holmes?

They passed a plump doorman that obviously spent too much time in the gym. Sherlock confidently made eye contact and greeted him with a nod, while Anderson rather operated as his shadow. But he wasn't kept from going in, so he didn't care what the man might think of him.

As expected the club was dimly lit and the music was drumming loudly. While Anderson cautiously looked around, Sherlock knew his destination and strode forward. The other man had to swiftly catch up, before they reached a stairwell that led downstairs. Wordlessly Sherlock started to descend and Anderson had no choice but to follow. There was a sign that he couldn't read properly in passing, but he thought that it must have said something like 'dungeons' and therefore he did no longer want to know for certain. He felt vulnerable in those damned cuffs, and Sherlock - his dom for tonight - had the keys.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Anderson couldn't help but stare open-mouthed. There were a dozen different platforms with different equipment and instruments positioned. And at most of them a small crowd gathered to watch whatever scene was going on at the platform.

"Come on now, Philip." He heard Sherlock say and snapped out of it.

Overwhelmed at what scenarios presented themselves before him, he barely managed to keep up with him. Realizing that this was a bit much to take in for his sub, with him seeing it for the first time, Sherlock slowed down and stopped at various occasions to let him have a look at the scenes.

But of course, unlike Anderson who seemed to have forgotten the reason why they were really here, Sherlock used the opportunity to gather all information he could find by discreetly looking around. However, he couldn't spot anyone behaving suspiciously nor one of the known faces to be involved in the drug deal. So they must have been gathering in a secluded area. Was to be expected.

He gripped Anderson by the elbow and led him to what looked like a coat rack at first glance. But when they came closer, yet another dreadful feeling was creeping up on the man. It couldn't possibly be...

"There we go. Stand at the wall."

Sherlock manoeuvred him towards it, so he would face the room. Then he nestled at the chain behind his back and unlike before, in the cab, he slowly pulled it back, until it went no further. After a moment more he stepped back. Anderson couldn't see what he had done, but when he tried to turn to see, he couldn't fully turn around, because he was now lodged to a circular hook in the wall.

This WAS a coat rack, just not for coats, but for pets - or in his case - subs!

"Wha...?" At a loss for words he tried to address Sherlock, but the man was already turning to leave.

"Wait here, Philip. There's something I have to check out. You'd just be in the way." He said in his typical distant stance, thoughts and eyes already miles ahead. Now smirking at Anderson once more, he added: "Good boy."

"Sherlock wait! Wait, you can't just leave me here like this!" He wanted to shout, because the man was already disappearing in the shadows of the crowd. But he could only hiss in order not to draw attention. "Sherlock!!"

He was rattling at his stupid bonds, but there was no use. Resigned, he just stood there helplessly, hands fixed to his collar, collar fixed to the wall, unable to do anything else but look around. When he turned his head, his eyes fell on a blonde girl, a few...hooks away. She couldn't be older than twenty. Her makeup was overdone, her red latex (was it a dress?) was covering her skin in all the wrong places. Her hands were attached to the hook above her head, but she was leaning there as if she owned the place. As soon as she noticed him looking, she gave him a lascivious grin and licked her lips.

Aghast at that forwardness, Anderson averted his eyes and turned his head just to witness a scene at the closest platform that he wished he hadn't: A sub kneeling before his master, being whipped and begging for more, his member erect and his behaviour all needy. Anderson felt like he was in the wrong movie. He wanted nothing more than to go home. Instead he lowered his eyes to the floor. He was praying for Sherlock to come back.

After what felt like an eternity, his back was aching, he saw a pair of women's boots enter his range of vision and his head shot up in alarm.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" In front of him was standing a woman with slight asian features, slim build, hair bound to a strict knot and a dress that left no room for interpretation regarding to the fact that he was facing a dominatrix.

"You must be his pet. He didn't mention those extraordinarily icy blue eyes."

Anderson just gaped at her in dread, not knowing how to respond. She smiled at his obvious discomfort and eyed him up. Tracing his stomach and hip down with a riding crop, she said: "You are wearing way too many layers for my tastes. Time to change that."

And with a spicy lash to his behind, which almost made him jump, she produced the key that Anderson recognised as Sherlock's. It was used for the chain, currently fixing him to the wall. And indeed the woman unchained him, only to take it and use it as her reins.

"Go on, that way! And keep quiet."

To emphasize the urgency of her order, she suddenly pressed a gun to his back. Very much intimidated and not knowing what was going on and where Sherlock was, he had no choice but to follow her instructions. He was led to an almost hidden hallway.

Leaving the music behind, a dark sultry silence settled around them. After a while, all he could hear was the echoing sound of their footsteps. The underground was sloping down. The air grew damp and colder. The narrow wall consisted of bricks and every 15 feet there was a torch lit with fire, illuminating the moss that was growing between the stones. Now THIS was the kind of settings that he really imagined when he thought of dungeons...

By now they must have long left the property and arrived somewhere in the London underground. Eventually they arrived at an old rusty door, which the woman pushed open to reveal a wide vault. Several lit torches and an electric lamp that was placed on a table in the middle of the room brought light to the many obscurities that were stashed in the room. At least Anderson hoped they were just stored, because there were some things that looked wildly like torture instruments from long passed times.

And there, at the huge table amongst a gang of people that looked like the stereotypical movie gangsters, Sherlock was seated. He seemed relaxed, except for his eyes; everyone who knew him a little better could have seen the alertness.

The woman shoved Anderson inside and closed the door behind him. A bit lost he stood there, all eyes on him, when he heard a raspy voice say:

"Well? Don't you know how to behave in front of your own master?" A second later a man rose from his chair. Anderson could see now that the voice belonged to him. Flabbergasted he looked from him to Sherlock who gave him a stare. The silence stretched, until someone from behind shoved Anderson forwards and onto his knees.

He had not seen the guards at the door! With a gasp he distorted his face in pain from the hard fall.

"You kneel in front of your master, that's what you do, you unworthy scum!" Uncomprehending Anderson sought eye contact with Sherlock yet again, who then stood up to walk over and stand in front of him, putting his hand on Anderson's shoulder.

"You must excuse my submissive." He said facing the apparent leader of the group. "But as I told you before, he is new to this, and I was merely looking for a quiet place to introduce him to everything BDSM has to offer."

His thumb started rubbing circles into Anderson's skin, right beneath the collar. It helped keeping the panic at bay, although he didn't know, if Sherlock himself was aware of his movement.

"And as I've told you before, that's a bit far from where all the fun is taking place, isn't it?" The other man answered suspiciously.

"I got lost." Sherlock simply stated.

"I'm sure." The man slowly walked around the table towards them. "That still leaves us with the problem of you walking in on us, doesn't it? You seem to be so clever, you see that, don't you?"

His words echoed through the room with no other sound to hear, the threat loud and clear.

Tension was suddenly so thick now that even the torch lights were flickering.

While Anderson himself was completely useless in this situation, he could practically hear the thoughts running wild in the detective's brain, and he could only hope that he would come up with a plan, and soon. From what he could see, all of the men were armed. Then Sherlock began to speak again.

"Alright now, let's put our cards on the table." He clasped his hands together. "Let's get to the point. Why I'm ACTUALLY here. I'm here about the drugs."

Suddenly all guns were pointed at him and Anderson looked at him in utter shock. That man was going to get them both killed...


	3. Chapter 3

"To clarify this. I'm not police. I want to BUY them." Sherlock made sure not to make any sudden movements. "Should maybe have mentioned that first..."

"You're a funny little fella, aren't ya?" The boss crossed his arms. "What makes you think you can just walk in here, and DEMAND that we sell drugs to you?"

"I'm not demanding anything, merely asking. Politely." Sherlock inclined his head.

After an agonizingly long silence the man started to laugh wholeheartedly.

"It takes a lot of guts to do what you just did. I think I like you." He gestured his men to lower their weapons, however they all remained alert. He kept on talking:

"You see, I'm just not stupid. I didn't get to where I'm now by just blindly trust everyone that came along. I'll have to check you out first."

"Of course. I would expect no less."

"Also, what's the story with him?" He gestured to Anderson.

"Oh, that part was true. He really is my new sub, if a bit slow on the mind." He said with a smirk towards the kneeling man, who didn't dare do more than frown.

"Right, then you'll have no problem doing a session here for us, will you?”

\---

Anderson had thought that after all this time, the detective would not be able to make him feel any more stupid. He had been sure that all the insults that existed had been used on him. He was proven wrong. The level of slow and stupid he was feeling tonight went beyond comparison and got gradually worse by the minute. He was so dumbstruck that it seemed his brain had simply given up on processing what was happening to him. Maybe it was some kind of coping mechanism.

Sure, he had basic knowledge of BDSM and what it was about, just like everyone else who had zapped through late night documentaries. And sure, going into that club tonight with a person that he knew had it out for him would eventually lead to more degrading. He was aware of that. But he had to admit that he had underestimated the extent of the consequences. He just couldn’t grasp how dire his situation was.

However, if anything, Anderson could always rely on Sherlock giving the uncomfortable, all-embracing truth, wanted or not.

This time he didn’t even have to wait for verbal obscenities. Just one look of the detective made him flinch and any objections obsolete. His only option right this moment was following his every lead. Of course they had to tread carefully. But how to handle this situation went way over Anderson’s head. So he resigned himself to trust that Sherlock would eventually – despite his constant nagging in the past – have his safety in mind.

Therefore he showed no resistance, when the drug smuggler boss pointed them towards one construction at the far end of the vault and Sherlock somewhat dragged him along. It was a metal frame that was fixed to the wall and in an arc it went from one side along the ceiling across the room to the other side. One could see that it was meant for attaching and hanging things there, as a pair of heavy chains was already dangling from the ceiling, innocently waiting to be put to use.

Sherlock didn’t make a lot of fuss. Before Anderson knew it, the chain around his neck and the handcuffs were removed and Sherlock was in the act of replacing them with the hanging ones.

That’s when Anderson’s brain short-circuited. Abruptly he turned on the spot and only stopped short, when he saw the big group of threatening looking men watching them. That brief moment of hesitation was all Sherlock needed. As he heard a quiet clicking sound, he looked down his left arm and saw confirmed what his sense of touch failed to transmit: Sherlock had put the metal cuff of one of the dangling chains on him and was fastening it. A heartbeat later the other one was attached to his right arm.

Perplexed at the sight and too slow to react, he had no time to anticipate what happened next either. In one great sweep his hands were pulled up above his head. The stretch was so sudden that he almost lost his balance. Gasping, he caught himself barely on his toes. When he looked up wide-eyed in surprise, the men smirked and laughed in delight at his obvious discomfort.

And Sherlock, where the fuck was Sherlock? He had been awfully tight-lipped since he’d entered this hellish dungeon. He knew the man was behind him, and he could also sense him working on something. But not being able to see – in this situation – that was unbearable.

Trying to control his breathing became harder by the second. He dared to try and turn his head just a little bit and was immediately roared at by one of the lot. He flinched massively at the sudden increase of volume. He looked at the angry man, one of the less forgiving type, it seemed.

That’s when he heard a tear of clothing behind him, and he instinctively shied away. His robes were hanging loosely by his sides now. Sherlock had torn them, apparently, and now used scissors to cut them from his arms, too. He suddenly was standing there with his bare chest exposed, shivering from the cold and whatnot.

Finally Sherlock stepped into his field of vision. Under different circumstances he would have despised the proximity. But right now, as he looked at the seemingly unfazed detective, he desperately searched for reassurance in the man’s eyes. But there was nothing of the sort to find.

Instead he said:

"Submission suits you, Philip. The black collar on your marble skin - as if it were meant for you."

Anderson looked up at him, seeing if he was joking. But there was no trace of humour in those sharp eyes. He was at a loss for words. So he just kept silently staring at him.

He recalled the words spoken at the entrance of the club – which seemed to have happened a lifetime ago. Keeping in character, until this was over... But when would this be over? And how would this end??

Unwanted memories came to mind of when he used to call Sherlock a psychopath and was corrected that the proper term was ‘sociopath’. It had always been part of making fun of him or retaliating for an insult. But right now, he honestly didn’t know what to think anymore. So close up, he could see Sherlock’s every facial feature – none of which were giving any comfort, his eyes devoid of emotion.

That new Sherlock actually frightened him. What was he capable of?

The detective was probably sensing his fear, so why wouldn’t he give him some kind of sign that they were still on the same page? Sherlock must have read his mind or at least sensed his doubts, because what he brought into his view now looked like an extreme measure, and made his skin crawl.

\---

"Sherl-..."

"Silence!"

He snapped his mouth shut, not least because he really, really was getting scared of that gag that Sherlock was holding in his hand.

With a strict frown Sherlock stared him down. Anderson read it in his face: he seriously was about to be gagged! In an idle attempt he pressed his lips together.

The detective smirked. With a dangerous glimmer in his eyes he said:

"Now open your mouth again WITHOUT any redundant remarks coming out of it!"

In barely a whisper he tried to bargain:

"Please... I don't want this. Please, Sherlock..." His crystalline blue eyes were staring at him imploringly.

"Now!" was the merciless response. The tone left no room for argument and therefore silenced his poor vis-à-vis.

Reluctantly Anderson opened his mouth a little.

"Wider! Come on, I haven't got all day for your peculiarities."

He opened it bit by bit, eyeing Sherlock's unmoving figure anxiously, until all of a sudden, Sherlock pushed the gag unceremoniously into his mouth and locked the ends of it at the back of Anderson's head. He was utterly and completely helpless now, robbed of his last resort of defence, his speech. He wasn't even capable of using his safe word anymore.

His life was hanging on a thread. At the mercy of a very convincingly played psychopath. Or sociopath. Whatever.

It would take just one mistake by the man in front of him, and their lives might be over. Who knows what those men were capable of. And there was nothing that he could do. Sherlock stepped out of his range of vision, which unnerved him a great deal more.

His fingers were beginning to shake, but he barely felt them anymore anyway, since his circulation was cut off by the cuffs and with his arms lifted up. His knees became weak, and when Sherlock appeared in front of him again, with a whip, his knees gave in at last.

\---

Sherlock knew: one mistake and the game that thrilled him so much would be over. One mistake and not only would their mission go up in smoke, but also their lives would be in danger. Anderson knew that, too. He could see it in his eyes. In fact, he looked awfully like he was about to make a very unwise decision and have a break down. It was unpredictable what Anderson would do in his panic. Chances were that he might blow their cover. Sherlock could not let that happen. In order to avoid such an outcome, Sherlock would have to take some measures. And Anderson would not like them.

As expected, as soon as he had efficiently stopped Anderson from talking by gagging him, the man went into a state akin to shock. That wasn't helped, when Sherlock brought the whip to his attention, which Anderson seemed to like even less.

What the man was oblivious to, was that the chosen whip, a riding crop, was the one that would inflict the mildest form of pain. But what could he expect. It was Anderson he was dealing with, after all.

That short-sighted idiocy alone was enough to give him the impulse of wanting to smack him, which was dangerous. Dangerous indeed, because so tempting. However, Lestrade would not let him in on his cases anymore, if he brought the forensics idiot back with permanent damage (although he wondered what could possibly get any more damaged here?).

So his aim would be to make a convincing impression on the drug smugglers to buy enough time to come up with a decent plan. His priorities were: collect the evidence and escape. Or was it the other way round?

While his mind was spinning all the possibilities, he slowly began to circle his helpless prey, searching for potential weak spots. While Anderson tried to follow his every movement by almost dislocating his neck, Sherlock noticed how he tensed, when the crop lightly brushed his waist. Ticklish, interesting.

Also, he seemed the most disconcerted when Sherlock was right behind him and completely out of his sight. Which was understandable.

So he came to a halt right there, just inches away from touching. He was literally breathing down Anderson's neck. From the corner of his eye he noticed that the men were completely absorbed by his little display. But he knew that it wouldn't last, if he didn't step up his game eventually.

Although, if he had asked Anderson, his pace would probably have been more than enough for him, by the looks of it. His immediate wellbeing, however, was not the foremost concern right now.

So he went on with his little game.

His free hand slowly wandered from Anderson's back across that soft ticklish spot on his waist, which made the man flinch again. But Sherlock just went on unerringly, his fingers reaching down a flat stomach to slowly insert themselves beneath the waistband of his dress pants, the pale skin of them both giving a stark contrast to the black material.

With a soft caress of his fingers very close to Anderson's most intimate parts, he had all the man's senses focused on him. His breathing - already made difficult by the gag - got heavier. It got even more intensified by a sudden brush of lips on Anderson's neck, whose head snapped up immediately, electrified. With a groan he instinctively laid his head to the side to expose his neck even better to Sherlock.

The detective just huffed in amusement at the little self restraint of his now willing submissive. Instead of giving him what he clearly wanted, he used the distraction to swiftly open Anderson's belt and zipper. Anderson only focused his attention on the unexpected deed, when he was standing there with only his underwear left to cover his skin. But he was not left with much time to ponder on the development, because Sherlock had the next surprise for him in store.

With a harsh strike across the middle of his back, Sherlock brought the nearly forgotten whip back into the centre of his subject's attention.

In a muffled groan, Anderson arched his back away from the painful instrument. That again was punished with yet another lash. And another. And another. Sherlock did not hold back. He had to play his role, he needed to deliver and that's what he was concentrating on. There were going to remain bruises, when he would be finished.

Meanwhile, Anderson had no more control over his own breathing. His chest was heaving irregularly, his eyes squinted shut in pain. After a bunch of strikes, Sherlock stepped to the side to have a look at Anderson's face, whose features were distorted, still feeling the burn of the lashes. His whole body was tense, his fists were clenched, unable to escape his bonds. He was in quite the distress, waiting for another attack.

Sherlock knew, the worst was the inevitability. Unlike other submissives, Anderson had no chance of stopping anything that was being done to him. He, Sherlock, had taken that away from him, rendered him powerless. What usually was unacceptable between two consenting parties, he had initiated out of necessity. But he needed to make sure that he wasn't demanding too much of Anderson.

He stepped closer and put the palm of his hand on the agitated chest. He felt the elevated heart rate and slung his other arm loosely around the man to rest it, whip in hand, on his hip to show him, that he was giving him a break. And indeed, after a moment, this caused him to relax a little, and his breathing slowed down.

Sherlock then grabbed Anderson's head and sharply pulled him back by his hair. In his deep, raspy voice he whispered - still loud enough for the echo to transmit to the others:

"Legs apart!"

When Anderson didn't comply right away, Sherlock began tracing the now openly displayed throat with his crop. Anderson visibly swallowed and carefully stepped out of his trousers that were pooling around his ankles and broadened his stance.

"Very good."

In a very light touch Sherlock's crop slowly stroked down the exposed and naturally sensitive inner thigh. Goosebumps were rising everywhere he touched. And just when Sherlock was about to take aim for a slap, one of the smugglers interrupted:

"Oh come on, where's all the action? That's hardly a proper session! If anything, it barely counts as soft porn!" The others roared with laughter, which echoed multiple times in the vault.

"Give him a good pounding, if you know what I mean!" Another one shouted.

Sherlock let go of Anderson, who miserably tried to rearrange himself. The detective looked at the men in distaste for their vulgar outburst.

"Excuse me. Did you not want to witness the way _I_ perform a scene?" He pierced them with his eyes one by one. "Actual sexual engagement is not necessarily a part of it. And certainly not without consent."

Anderson slumped down in gratitude at that.

Then the boss spoke up again:

"Of course. Of course. If there are things you're not willing to do, I understand. We understand. We won't make you." He stepped forward, opening his arms as if ready for an embrace, only it seemed more like a threat.

"However, there is a certain way we do things around here. And my gut tells me, the two of you aren't right for us."

"I understand." Sherlock had expected this.

"You don't fit in here." Tension arose again. "Lock them away. We're dealing with them later, we're behind schedule."

Sherlock had seen this coming, but two - or rather one - against at least fifteen? That wasn't a bet he was going to win. They had no chance. So he let himself be man-handled without a fight. They tied his hands with ropes behind his back. Amateurs, after all. There might yet be a chance to escape later on.

Others meanwhile hauled Anderson from his confinement and simply put his leather cuffs back on, only this time behind his back.

They were shoved down the corridors, even further into the labyrinth. At last, they were pushed into a room without any light, and the heavy door was thrown shut and locked. They heard footsteps striding away.

Anderson had a hard time breathing through his gag, which was for once noticed and not ignored by Sherlock. He graciously removed it, which could not have been an easy task with his hands bound.

The forensics expert, though, did not dare to speak, because he figured Sherlock would know, when or if it was safe to do so. Also, he'd probably only get talked down to anyway, so why bother? Besides, he wasn't quite able to shake his fear of the detective.

But as the silence stretched, he realized how cold it was down here. Thanks to SOMEONE, he had only his underwear left to protect him. So it was no surprise, when he started shivering and his teeth began to clatter. In vain, he tried to keep himself as warm as possible by cowering down in a corner.

At the same time, Sherlock was rustling around, then got up. Apparently he had managed to remove his bonds. He now seemed to figure out what deductions he could draw from this place they were in.

"Four square metres." He mumbled.

"What?"

"That's how big the room is."

"WHAT?!?" Anderson squeaked in a high-pitched voice. He started hyperventilating immediately.

"What what?" Sherlock asked. " You're not claustrophobic, are you?"

"One hundred points for the great detective." Anderson stuttered out.

"Okay. Okay, just... calm down."

"GREAT ADVICE. THANK YOU. SO MUCH!"

"Aaaahm, okay. This is not good, you're making it worse!"

" _I_ AM MAKING IT WORSE??"

"Let me think. And I'll have a solution for you. I'm going to get us out of here, Anderson."

"So, we're... back to... last name...basis, yeah? Does that mean the role play is finally over?" He forced out his words.

"What? Yeah, yeah. But that's irrelevant right now. Do shut up. The room's too small for this much stupid."

"Oh, thanks for pointing that out. Again!" He answered hoarsely.

"Can you at least untie me then?"

Between the ideas that Sherlock was rattling down to himself, while pacing up and down the two feet that he had, he said:

"Don't have the key."

"Wh-... What d'you mean, you don't ha-have the key??"

"It means it was taken from me, you should remember that. It was merely half an hour ago. Does your brain capacity not leave _any_ room for crucial information?" That statement led into another down-spiral for Anderson's psyche.

"OH GOD. Oh God. Ohgodohgodohgod." His throat grew tight.

He choked at the try to gulp down air. There wasn't enough room for it to get through to his lungs. There wasn't enough oxygen in this room. Too damp. Too much pacing. He tried to kneel to get more space in order to be able to breathe more easily, but he only bumped his face into Sherlock's leg. That didn't help.

However, it caused the detective to finally direct his attention to the suffocating man and he conceded that calming him down had just become the utmost priority.

So, what would John Watson do?

Improvising, he knelt beside him and hesitantly put an arm around Anderson's shoulders. In a quiet decisive voice he said:

"Listen to me now. You need to take a deep breath. Do it. Do it now! No matter how hard it might seem, you have to do it. PHILIP!"

That seemed to do the trick. The first breath sounded more like the croaking sound of a dying man.

"Good, very good. Now breathe with me! In. And out. And in. And out. Yes, that's it. Keep going."

Only then did he realize, that the man was half-naked and freezing. He took off his own jacket and draped it over Anderson's shoulders. Then he came closer to share his warmth and started rubbing his arms and back. He also kept encouraging his breathing. After a little while Anderson's panic had ceased and all that was left were his shivering limbs and utter exhaustion.

"What now, Sherlock? What's your plan? You always have a plan..." He said in a defeated tone.

"Haven't got one yet."

"Well, that's a first. You're not admitting you are flawed, are you? My hearing must be impaired, surely?"

"I admit to no such thing. If you tell anyone, I'll deny everything. Just you wait. I'll come up with a plan."

There was another thing, though, that he would never admit. Anderson wasn't half bad company, after all.

That's when they heard footsteps nearing.

 

\---

 

“Of course I did that just to prevent you from ruining everything! You surely can't be so misguided as to think you are a reliable, trustworthy partner? I believe the past gives us enough evidence to the contrary!"

"Oh, this is brilliant! What about you, have you looked in the mirror??"

"GUYS! Stop it. We're here to get your statements, not to start World War 3!" Lestrade said, rubbing his tired eyes. It had been a very long day.

"How did you find us anyway?" Anderson asked, religiously grasping his shock blanket.

"Oh, obvious. They had some GPS device planted. Most probably on me, thanks to my brother, Mycroft, since it had to be the most innovative technical device; small enough not to be seen, yet strong enough signal to be located in the underground." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And therefore it was no problem tracking us down, when there was no sign of us."

Lestrade nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, it's just a shame it was all for nothing and the smugglers got away..."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Sherlock responded with a triumphant grin, and slid a small device across the table that turned out to be a micro camera. "Everything's on there. Dialogues. Names. Faces. The Product. Even you should be able to track them down and make an arrest now, Gabe."

Anderson and Lestrade looked at him in surprise.

"Oh, it's always the same with slow people. So easy to impress." He said, spotting John behind the barrier.

When there was no protest, he looked up at Anderson in curiosity, only to see exhaustion written all over his face. He took it as his cue to leave.


	4. Chapter 4

Epilogue

  
  
"Ah, Anderson, what are you doing here?"

"Working. At the crime scene. Which is my job. Unlike yours!" He said in annoyance.

There was something different about him, Sherlock could sense it. Maybe a light form of PTSD from their little adventure? Not likely. He seemed to have handled that well enough(which he would never mention out loud). Ah, rope burns on his wrists. He had tried bondage then. Got a taste for it. But it went wrong. Idiot.

"So you're too stupid to do it right and instead managed to trigger yourself. Why am I not surprised?"

"Excuse me?"

"You tried out bondage with a new girl, a stranger. Of course, she wouldn't know your limits or about your recent contact with BDSM. Which was a mistake. You can't just not mention a possible traumatising experience and expect her to know. Therefore she must have done something to trigger you. Maybe getting tied up was already enough. You panicked, it ended in a disaster. You're in subdrop."

"What..."

"Five o'clock, your flat, tonight." And he was gone. Gaping after him, Anderson unconsciously drew his jacket tighter.

Anderson had no time to ponder what sub-drop even meant, because Lestrade called him over. He kept him busy for the rest of the day, so the meeting with Sherlock slipped into oblivion. He was feeling a little under the weather lately, so when he got home, first thing he did was putting on a kettle to make himself a cup of tea and got into the shower. When he came back and turned on the light in the living room to sit down with his cuppa, he almost had an heart attack. He dropped his cup and spilled the tea all over the floor. There on his very own couch Sherlock Holmes was seated.

“How did you get in here?” He stammered.

“Wrong!”

“What do you mean wrong? You can’t just come in here and put me in my place ...at my place!” Angered by the typical impossible behaviour, Anderson quickly had found his words again. “And yes, I do want to know how you broke in my-“

“I mean you’re as always asking the wrong question! Much more pressing for you should be the question ‘Why?’, why did I break into your flat?” Sherlock was leaning forward, while the frowning Anderson knelt down to pick up the shards of the cup.  
Sherlock went on:

“I’m here, because you’re in subdrop, a state of temporary depression and/or chemical dis-balance experienced by submissives after intense BDSM play. It can be a delayed reaction as in your case and can also last up to a week. Anyway, it is dangerous for people who have no BDSM experience and who have no idea what they’re dealing with, as - judging by your look – is the case with you. Because it’s the responsibility of the dominant party to see the submissive through that. Clearly the two of you didn’t know what you were doing.”

Anderson uncomfortably looked up at him from the floor and said:

“So, let’s say I were experiencing that... ‘subdrop’, what would you suggest I do? I’m not in contact with her anymore, I can’t just creep up on her like that.”

“Forget her. She’s an amateur. No. I’m here to offer you help.”

At that Anderson was stunned. But he quickly recovered and asked suspiciously:

“Why? Why would _you_ help me? Are you trying to play a joke on me? Don’t you get bored of always targeting me??” Anderson got up, now infuriated.  
Sherlock, however, remained calm.

“No, I’m serious about my offer. I figured I owe you as much after what I put you through. It’s just an one time offer, though. Don’t worry.”  
He watched Anderson’s reaction intensely. Processing the new information, Anderson replied, still hesitant:

“ _If_ ... I were to let you help me, what would that entail?”

Sherlock knew he had won.

In a swift movement he got up and crossed the distance between them. Before Anderson could react, he was pressed down into a kneeling position again with Sherlock’s left hand on his neck and his right hand twisting Anderson’s right arm behind his back.

“Submit!” He commanded. When Anderson didn’t stop fidgeting, he added: “You did it before.”

Anderson struggled to let go, but then an unwelcome thought entered his mind: he _had_ liked it. Being not in control. When he had been forced into submission by the detective before, he had secretly enjoyed it. Well, when they had been in the cab, and not in danger anyway. The thought of giving in to that feeling again was thrilling. Why not just... this once.

He relaxed his muscles and Sherlock got an even better grip on him. In a sigh the kneeling man let out a whimpering sound. He felt the detective’s power over him intensify. Oh, he hoped that this was not a cruel trick by the detective. If what was happening here got out, he’d be mortified.

Anderson felt a sudden loss, when Sherlock let go of his neck.

Out of nowhere the latter produced several pieces of black rope and skilfully wrapped one around the wrist that he was still holding. He left enough room in order not to cut the circulation, then demanded Anderson’s other arm. He repeated the measure with another piece of rope and eventually tied the hands together in a complex knot.

But Sherlock wasn’t done. He wound yet another rope around Anderson’s forearms and pulled them together into a parallel line. Then he tightened that rope as well. The tension on Anderson’s drawn back shoulders was immense and he had to arch into a hollow back to alleviate the tension somewhat. His breathing was accelerated, but in a strange way he _was_ feeling better. Unconsciously he had closed his eyes and started rocking back and forth on his knees. Every movement reminded him of the ropes rubbing on his skin. It was glorious.

After a little while he felt Sherlock wordlessly getting on his knees next to him. Just when he opened his eyes to see what the man was up to, he was enclosed by strong arms that were pulling him to the man’s chest. That took him by surprise. But he didn’t think to break the silence. Instead he listened to the steady heartbeat and the last bit of tension left his body. He wasn’t even ashamed anymore of enjoying that intimate hug. It just felt so good. He was drunk on that joyous feeling, content and ready to fall asleep right there and then.

Minutes passed.

When he was about to really wander over into the dream world, Sherlock began to speak in an untypically hushed voice:

“I believe, it’s time to get you to bed. Can you stand?” He helped him in an upright position and guided him to the bedroom. As soon as Anderson hit the pillows, he was out.

So, when he woke up the next morning, no longer restrained and covered with his blanket, he wasn’t sure if he had dreamt all of it.

If it weren’t for the freshly imprinted rope burns, he’d thought himself mad.


End file.
